


A Chain of Contradictions

by chainsaw_poet



Category: A Hero of Our Time - Mikhail Lermontov
Genre: Angst, Duelling, Emotional Manipulation, Journal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsaw_poet/pseuds/chainsaw_poet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I do not know why I should derive such pleasure from seeing him suffer. I have no real ill will against him, no strong desire to do him genuine harm, I find it merely fascinating. Perhaps it is simply part of my innate passion for contradiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Chain of Contradictions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [V_V_lala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_V_lala/gifts).



> Wishing you, dear recipient, the compliments of the season. The same are extended to all other readers.

May 11th

When I heard his voice call my name, I found myself smiling. Of course, it had been a long time since we last met, and whenever one encounters a figure from the past there is a pleasing sense of nostalgia, whether or not the figure in question is associated with good memories. Being reminded that one’s previous life is not a solitary, perhaps even imaginary, experience, is in itself a reason for happiness.

I had no particular reason to be pleased to see Grushnitski; quite the opposite, in fact. His youthful affectations and unformed ideas irritated me, but we had shared some intimate moments whilst billeted together in a front-line detachment. It was the usual sort of attachment that young men who are without the company of women will forge amongst themselves. I will not stake a claim for it as a sort of high romantic friendship. Nevertheless, our parting had allowed emotions to arise in me that I had not wished to feel, and did not wish to feel again.

The greatcoat suited him, I will bitterly admit that. And perhaps he has grown a little more mature since our last encounter, because when he stops attempting to be a hero from a novel, I find him rather sweet and amusing. His youth, that he works so hard to disguise, reveals itself when he quits his posturing, and youth is always compelling.

But, of course, I cannot forgive him for what he made me feel. Forgiveness is not in my nature. Doubtless, he never intended it, for I never allowed myself to show what I felt. On the contrary, I recall being quite cruel at our parting. I remember a pained expression on his face when I casually confessed that my new posting would leave me little time to write. It is the same expression that I saw in his face when he dropped his glass and attempted to pick it up. Poor fellow! The old ache returned somewhat, but now accompanied by a new sensation, a hot satisfaction at seeing his features twist in pain.

Then his princess arrived, and I understood how I might make his handsome features twist a little more often. I do not know why I should derive such pleasure from seeing him suffer. I have no real ill will against him, no strong desire to do him genuine harm, I find it merely fascinating. Perhaps it is simply part of my innate passion for contradiction.

May 13th

I wonder at Werner’s perception, how he knew that Grushnitski was my intended victim. Of course, he then proceeded to get it quite wrong, suggesting that I intended to court the Princess Mary, to whom my former friend is so attached. That pleased me immensely. I am terribly fond of people guessing my plans incorrectly.

In the evening, I went out onto the boulevard. The conversation I made was enough to attract people to me, and thus to call over the attention of Grushnitski’s princess. Success – although it is only a means to an end. Grushnitski’s own attention was harder to obtain. He has not yet managed to stop dreaming over the princess for long enough to wonder what it was that was distracting her. It matters not. In time enough, he will begin to wonder who is competing with him for her attentions.

May 16th

As I parted from Grushnitski this evening, having met him by chance in the street when he was returning from Princess Ligovskaya’s, he told me that he was going to gamble at the restaurant. I replied that I hoped he would lose, and immediately regretted the statement. It is moments such as that in which my tongue betrays me, implying that there may be stronger feelings stirring below the cold surface which I delight in presenting. Such feelings do not exist, I am sure, but it is weakness and folly to suggest that they might. I was saved from embarrassment, however. The idiot thought that I was joking, and so laughed in response.

Having arrived at home, I spent an unwarranted amount of time thinking about him. It made me laugh to contemplate the glass which he has had engraved with her name; a brittle token for a brittle affection. It almost made me pity him enough to give up the whole scheme, for what satisfaction can come from anything achieved over one so pitiful? But visualising her name engraved on the glass made me remember the way in which he spoke of her: my Mary. And that was enough to reawaken my pleasure in the game.

Mary is paying more attention to me. She now dislikes me intensely – or believes that she does. I told Grushnitski that I could be at the princess’s tomorrow evening, if I wished it. And now I find that I do wish it. He will soon notice my intentions.

May 23rd

Damn him and his innocence. I spent last night shamefully courting _his_ Mary, even revealing to her that his greatcoat is not the product of a demotion for duelling, but simply his right and proper rank. And how does he respond? He approaches me with shining eyes to tell me how grateful he is that I protected her from harm. He is a greater idiot than I believed him to be.

He was triumphant this evening when the princess feigned annoyance with my interruptions to their conversations. Let him have his pleasure; it will be transient. Yet, I could not help but notice his eyes following me as I left the party. I wondered whether or not I was deceiving myself, but should have known that would not be the case. The next instant, he was standing next to me outside the doorway, pulling on that ridiculous greatcoat of his.

“What do you think?” he asked. It was a clear night, and, in the moonlight, he looked young. I studied his face for anything that might have changed in it since our parting so long ago, but found nothing. I wanted to tell him he was a fool – that it was foolish to place so much value in women. But I would not repeat my mistake of the previous week. I restrained myself, and merely shrugged my shoulders.

June 3rd

Grushnitski has been made an officer. I drank champagne with him, noting the flush it brought to his cheeks, but would not congratulate him. I sense that I might miss his greatcoat when he tosses it aside. It was, after all, rather helpful to my plans. Besides which, it suited him.

In those plans, I must remain vigilant. I am finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. My mind wanders on to unsanctioned subjects and when I return to myself I find the pages of this journal streaked with words and thoughts that I had not intended. It is the fault of the place, I imagine. These spa towns beget boredom in the very waters that spring from them; to drink is to consume ennui. It must be tedium and tedium alone that leads me to become fixated on Grushnitski and his princess. In Petersburg, such a thing would never have occurred.

The boredom makes me lose my way with Grushnitski as well. Today, when he was telling me his good news, I found myself warning him about Mary’s inconstancy.

“Be careful, Grushnitski, she is duping you,” I told him. Why did I say such a thing? Surely my plan rests on him remaining unaware of this until he has pledged his whole heart to her. If I want him to hurt, then I need him to love her first. Reconsidering my actions, I recall that, seconds before I spoke, he had looked at me over the rim of his glass and ardently professed that passions are not spoken but guessed. Perhaps it was this outburst, and the accompanying flicker through his dark eyes, that caught me unawares. I contemplate passion as infrequently as possible.

Luckily, he refused to believe my words. To think – he has reached twenty-one and has not let learnt the ease with which women can be tempted into fickleness. It was a lesson I knew by sixteen, that is, if my mother’s behaviour had not already made me aware of it from my very birth.

“She?” he replied, looking at me incredulously. “I am sorry for you, Pechorin!”

If he does pity me, if he is truly sorry for me, then the shame of that is reason enough to press on with his torment. To be pitied is in itself a reprehensible state in which to find oneself. But to be pitied by one as ridiculous as Grushnitski is simply intolerable. Nevermind. It is not a situation I shall have to abide with for much longer.

June 5th

Grushnitski’s new uniform arrived today. He arrived at my residence wearing in it so that we should travel to the ball together. His appearance pleased me. He looked awkward in his epaulettes – perhaps because his tailor had indeed cut the jacket too tight – and it gave him the air of a young animal caught within range of the huntsman’s shotgun. I found myself smiling at him, despite my affectations of indolence. Of course, he, with his high notions of maturity and sophistication, found this unbearable. This amused me even more.

“People are saying you’ve been wooing my princess shamelessly these last few days,” he said, toying with his gloves and attempting to appear unconcerned. The attempt was a poor one. He has noticed, and it cuts him deeply. This is all the motivation I need to continue.

The other reason I like his uniform? The princess despises it. And it gave me the opportunity to comment upon how young it made him look. Indeed, he did look young; the deep blue of the jacket brought out the colour of his eyes and his hair, grown long from being away from the army, curled at the nape of his neck. The flush that my comment brought to his face only made him look more boyish. I can see that Grushnitski already rues the day he took a bullet in the leg for those epaulettes.

The flush in his cheeks only deepened when he discovered I was dancing the mazurka with _his_ Mary. He then went to vent his spleen with some of the other young and idiotic young men that haunt this wretched town. He found a captive audience for they all dislike me. Their obvious displeasure only pleases me more.

Perhaps I flatter myself, but there was something in Grushnitski’s eyes that suggested he was not only smarting from the rejection of a woman. Women, after all, are fickle creatures. The love of a young woman passes from one fool in a greatcoat to another as quickly as a bee flitting between spring blossoms. No, what cuts a man deeper is the betrayal by a man whom one considered to be a friend. That, my dear Grushnitski is learning, is the worst pain of all, and it is a pain which I am adept at inflicting.

June 7th

Apparently that young fool Grushnitski has a little more sense than I have credited him with. Werner spoke with me today and implied that the whole town talks of some scandal between the princess and myself, and foresees that we shall soon be engaged to be married. I assured him, in no uncertain terms, that no such happy occasion would be taking place. I have little doubt as to the source of these rumours.

Oh well, I am glad of it. If he will permit himself to be drawn into my game, if he will be prove himself to be low enough to parry my advances then he deserves everything that he gets. He should either have the experience to know that I am not a man to be trifled with, or the innocence to remain blissfully unaware of my machinations. Those were his two means of protection, but it seems he is too stupid for the former and too adroit for the latter.

For a brief period, I was concerned that he might evade me. His eyes are so clear and bright when he congregates with the other residents in the mornings at the spring. They seem to exude pure innocence. It is charming and revolting in equal measure. That does not matter now, of course. He has shown his hand and the game will continue to its end.

June 12th

I must confess that I did not expect to his words to reverberate so deeply through me. They were, after all, insults that have been thrown at my a hundred times. A dandy? Perhaps. A coward? Almost certainly. To hear those other men cast such words in my direction would not have disturbed me in the slightest. But to hear his mumbles of agreement was painful.

He delayed before he responded to their plan about the duel. Perhaps all my hope lies in that hesitation. He was not quick to agree to their craven scheme. If only I could have looked through the shutters and seen his face! What emotions passed over those clear eyes of his as he contemplated shaming me in front of all of society? Was he savouring the moment, imaging my pitiful countenance as I begged for my life? Or did he think back, through the years that have intervened, to a parting at a barracks in Petersburg?

The sorrow I felt at hearing his words, I cannot justify it. Was this not, after all, exactly what I desired? Grushnitski says these things about me because I have hurt him in some way. Oh, if only I could have seen that face – those handsome features twisted in hot agony as he decided what to do with me.

June 15th

The sun is about to rise and Grushnitski has just left my rooms.

He knows that it was me who was at Mary’s window, not some Circassians that are the insubstantial product of local legend. He did not ask whether it was I who felt his hand upon my shoulder, and I did not say that I know it was he who almost caught me as I ran into the bushes. Neither of us has made an accusation, but both of us know the truth.

Two hours after he and the dragoon’s captain had knocked on my door – and I had sent them packing with some lie about having a cold – I was still awake. The voices on the street outside had died down some time before; having given up home of catching the culprit red-handed, the bands of men had returned to bed. Sleep, however, eluded me. I was lying on my bed, in my nightshirt, exactly as I had been the first time that Grushnitski came to my apartments. His second knock startled me from my reverie.

“Who is it?” I called.

“Pechorin? You’re awake? It’s me, Grushnitski.” His voice was low, soft enough only to carry through the door. “Will you let me in?” Wrapping a blanket around myself, I did so. As he stepped into the rooms, I could see that his jacket was unfastened, but a sword still hung by his sides. His cheeks were stung pink from running about in the night air. He stood awkwardly at the corner of my bed.

“What are you here?” I demanded.

“Why did you let me in?” he replied. His attempt at a wry smile suggested that he was trying to be clever. I cut through that instantly.

“It’s the middle of the night. Why are you here?” He lowered his eyes, long dark lashes eclipsing their bright orbs.

“You said that you were ill. I wanted to make sure that… Are you feeling better?” he asked, meeting my eyes. I faked a cough and sat down on the bed.

“No worse,” I said, which was not quite an untruth. “But thank you for your concern.” I motioned for him to join me on the bed and he obliged me, removing his jacket as he did so. He was not wearing a collar and his shirt fell open a little at the throat. I watched it swell as he swallowed, and then asked, “Did you catch your Circassians?” Grushnitski shook his head.

“No, and I doubt we ever shall.”

“What on earth had they been up to that they caused such a riot?”

“That dragoon’s captain and I caught one of them at Princess Mary’s window. He was watching her.” I raised my eyebrows in feigned surprise.

“I hope your Mary is not the worse for her ordeal,” I replied. He looked at me and a sharp jolt of remembrance twisted his mouth. Suddenly, he looked pained and ugly. I liked that.

“Not my Mary anymore, Pechorin. She never was, I suppose.”

“Come, come. She liked your greatcoat.”

“For a while, perhaps. Women mostly like things for a while, don’t they? Men, greatcoats.” I could tell this was a speech he had planned; a line that he believed would sound pithy in conversation. It riled me to hear him speak that way, but I assured him that he spoke the truth.

“Men,” he continued. “Men feel things quite differently, don’t they? More quietly, perhaps, and in strange ways – but more strongly, I believe. I feel that young men have a capacity for love of which women, young women at least, are incapable.”

“And how would you know anything about that,” I murmured.

“And now she’s going to marry you, I hear.”

“That’s not true. I told her two days ago that I did not love her. I couldn’t make her marry me now even if I had wanted to,” I snapped.

Grushnitski’s eyes softened. “They you haven’t…? And you won’t…?”

“I never had any intention of marrying Mary.” He leaned closer towards me. I could almost feel his breath on my cheek.

“Then why did you spent so much time courting her?” I rolled my eyes lazily.

“Grushnitski, why don’t you think just for once?” I knew exactly what would happen next. I watched his eyes close, watch him lean forward, chin titled upwards slight. In such a position he was utterly exposed, completely at my mercy, sacrificing himself to me. I inhaled him for a fraction longer and then firmly placed my hand on his chest, just as his lips were about to touch mine.

“What are you doing?” I said coldly. Through his thin shirt, I felt his muscles tense and then he opened his eyes. “Were you going to kiss me?” I said, allowing a little laughter to slip into my voice. Colour rose quickly to his cheeks but still he said nothing. “Did you think that was why I wooed Mary? Because I loved you?” I scoffed, and felt a quiver wash over me as he flinched at the sound. “I did it because I could do it. I made her fall in love with me because it is pleasant to have pretty women fall in love with me. And if a self-important young man in a greatcoat can be pinched a little too, well then…”

“Go to hell!” he snapped, and fled from the room.

For now, I can think of the hot pain that flashed in his eyes, the screeching hatred which he bore me. That is what I wanted. That is more than enough.

There will be repercussions, I am sure of it.

June 16th

Was this how I would have had it conclude? Was this the end I imagined for my little pastime – pistols at six paces? Now, it does not matter, I suppose, what my intentions really were when I began to toy with Grushnitski. Fate has decided the outcome, and we two must comply.

The violent upset that flooded into in his eyes when I spoke, asking him to retract an accusation that we both know is true – it was a beautiful thing. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to contemplate firing a pistol at a man whom, less than twenty-four hours before, you were trying to kiss. Poor Grushnitski must be in mortal torment.

Though, of course, the captain of the dragoons believes that he will have a turn at playing Fate. Not likely, I think; I know his game. But it pleased me to hear Werner’s reports of Grushnitski’s nobility. The innocence is there still, which means there is a chance to wound him even deeper. Another chance to see those handsome eyes scorched with pain.

\---------

I had not wept since I was a child. Now I find myself alone in my apartments as the sun rises, eyes stung with dried tears and a chest that aches from sobbing. I attribute it to frayed nerves, the night without sleep, the two minutes facing the barrel of a pistol, and my empty stomach.

I am left to wonder whether he intentionally missed my leg. After all, he had refused to fire until that damned captain called him a coward. And at six paces, to only graze my knee? He would have had to be a terrible shot. But most of all, the expression on his face when I looked up at him, that smile. Of course, he knew that my pistol was not loaded – maybe that was the source of his pleasure? He thought he would be saved by his own cleverness.

But then, he did not even try to stop me from reloading my pistol. He simply stood there, the same embarrassed, determined smile on his face, ready to face the bullet that he knew was coming.

I cannot blame myself. I gave him every opportunity to retract his statement. The whole distasteful matter, the sordid game in which we were both embroiled, could have been cast from the precipice and forgotten by all present, except as a bizarre footnote to their otherwise unexceptional lives.  
“Remember, we were friends once.” It was true. We were friends. We were friends until that night in my apartment. I know because it was when I uttered those words that I saw the violent heat return to his sparkling eyes. And when he spoke, it was in the same tone which he had used to tell me to go to hell.

“I despise myself, and I hate you.”

It was then that I fired the gun. I can almost think that I did not mean to fire. Upon hearing him say those words and mean them so very deeply, perhaps some passion overcame me and I reacted instinctively to end it. I do not like to contemplate passion, and I think that Grushnitski knew this. There was a glimmer in his eyes and the flush on his pale cheeks as he spoke that was feverish in intensity. Yet there was a clarity to his speech that proclaimed every word to be carefully placed, and every emotional response to be intentional.

Meditating on this leads me to wonder who it was that was really in control of the little game that Grushnitski and I were playing. I could almost imagine that he knew what pleasure it gave me to see him suffer.

Then again, perhaps I am crediting a naïve youth with too much knowledge of the soul of man. I could more easily imagine that I orchestrated the whole perfect and pitiful scenario. The duel was the moment of ecstasy that I had always hoped for. To put a bullet through a man’s chest as he tells you that he despises you – what purer suffering can one man inflict upon another?

All I know is that when I saw his broken body lying below the pathway on my descent from the place of our last meeting, I could not look upon it.

Dawn is breaking and I feel at last that I may be able to sleep again. I will soon leave this place. That is for the best. There is only one task to accomplish before I do so. I will rewrite an account of these events and commit the offending pages of this journal to the fire.


End file.
